


From the Perspective of a Dragon's Most Prized Treasure

by angelblack3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Captivity, Dark, Dragonlock, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6281998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All John wanted was excitement. What he received was the attentions of a dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Perspective of a Dragon's Most Prized Treasure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [You_Light_The_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/gifts).



The abrasive face of the cliff wall dug into John's soft palms and the soles of his feet. His muscles were sore with the effort of scaling the sheer face, but he couldn't turn back now. Not when he'd come so far.

He didn't need to look down to know the fatal distance between the treasure strewn cave floor and himself. A brief image of his body, lying broken among unyielding heaps of gold, flashed through his mind.

His stomach swooped in terror before he smothered it under his desperation. He told himself that the length of the fall was just a testament to how far he’d come. If he turned back out of cowardice now, he may never have an opportunity like this again. John breathed deeply, and reached for the next crag.

\--

John had been alone and wandering along the furthermost outskirts of the forest surrounding his village. He often walked in solitude now. Despite being knighted and eager to see the end of bloodshed, his return home had been lackluster. He never would have wished for a continuation of war to resolve his ennui, but he felt purposeless.

He’d been torn from his morose thoughts when a sound greater than a thunderclap rang out. John had crouched low without realization. He looked for the source of the noise. It resounded again, closer, and overhead.

John looked up to see a great beast skimming over the treetops. He rolled into the underbrush and laid flat to avoid detection.

There was a cacophonous snapping of trees and a whoosh of massive wings up ahead. John’s heart thumped so hard against his breast that he was certain the creature would feel the tremors in its feet.

His mind screamed at him to turn back, to flee, to gather able bodies and either evacuate the town or drive the beast away. He remained still. Inexplicably, he began to crawl forward.

Soon his path was blocked by a felled tree. Inching up cautiously, he peered over the edge.

The dragon’s scales appeared black at first glance, but every reflection of the sun revealed an indigo shimmer. The long serpentine body slithered across the ground. Sinewy legs ending in black talons crushed any obstacle.

John was facing its back, and he could see a crown of spikes along the back of its head to protect the vulnerable nape.  Its back had no protection apart from its own thick hide. Its wings were settled flat at its side to avoid any irritating scratching against tree bark. They were long enough that the bottom ends trailed through the mud of the riverbank the beast was guzzling from.

John wasn’t foolish enough to lose his fear, but he couldn’t stop the swell of awe. It was akin to seeing a powerful force of nature take on physical form. A stray breeze cooled the sweat from John’s neck.

The dragon’s head snapped up. John dropped down in the next moment.

His heart echoed in his skull. He didn’t dare to move, yet the thought of staying filled him with dread. With deep breaths steadying his limbs, he tried to inch towards the forest’s edge.

A clawed limb came down directly in front of him. John slammed himself back against the log. The dragon’s long body draped over the trunk until it had John trapped in a circle of its own enormity.

Its face regarded John with chilling indifference. In the midst of his fear he compared the color of its eyes to that of a winter’s storm.

“Greetings, interloper,” the dragon’s voice rumbled so low loose rocks shook, “it’s wise of you to spy on me for weaknesses. Less so to remain downwind and without weapons.” It, no, John supposed it was a ‘he’ with a voice like that, tilted his head like he expected a response.

John swallowed, but his mouth remained dry. “I-I wasn’t,” John tried again, “I wasn’t spying on you.”

“Weren’t you? I would expect nothing less from a recently returned swordsman. Doubtless you wish to protect your town from future calamity. Well, your scouting was for naught. I have no interest in decimating a meaningless village for sport. Unfortunately, now I shall have to consume you, as you likely won’t believe me and will send a small cavalry to come pester me.”

The dragon breathed in. John smelled a rising acrid scent of sulfur. In blind panic he asked, “How did you know I was a swordsman?”

The heat emanating from the dragon’s chest abated. He looked deeply perplexed. It was an odd expression on a dragon.

“That’s what you’re concerned with? You’re not going to plead for me to spare you?”

“I mean,” John couldn’t hold back the hint of hysteria in his voice, “certainly, if I thought it would help. But you seem to have made up your mind already, so I doubt it.” John shrugged, but the gesture was far from aloof. “How did you know about my past service? Is reading the minds of others one of the skills you possess?”

The dragon snorted. John flinched from the hot rush of air. “No, but it might as well be. Solely based on the degree of awe you humans exhibit over simple observation. In your case, you were crawling to escape in the manner of warriors atop a battlefield. You have not removed your hand from your hip, which indicates you are reaching for a weapon that is no longer there.”

John thought laughter would be mad to express, yet he felt a certain giddiness at the absurdity of death staring him in the face while discerning his past so easily.

“Do you notice anything else?” John asked before the thought had come to fruition.

The dragon’s second eyelid briefly closed over, “You’re alone, without a betrothed. You have very few friends in the village, or at least very few you confide in. You’re incredibly bored with your lifestyle, and have no practical solution to solve it.”

John was amazed, terrified, and bewildered. “That’s correct. Absolutely correct. How did you know-?”

“You’re out here wandering in solitude. This could be a leisurely comfort, yet someone who approaches a dragon without thought to weapons or armor means you enjoy adventure. You’re also rather far from your town than is sensible for a normal stroll. It suggests that you didn’t want to come across anyone from your community, and that you go looking for trouble when none finds you.”

John could only nod in agreement. For a reason he couldn’t explain, he felt himself relaxing in small increments. Perhaps the ease he was falling into would lead to his death, but he didn’t think so. The dragon seemed calmer now, even slightly hesitant. Like he was expecting John to be the one to lash out aggressively.

“Well,” John said, “I seem to have found it now.”

The dragon tilted his head like a curious bird. John wasn’t certain, but he thought he detected a note of wonder in the dragon’s voice when he said, “Yes, you certainly have.”

\--

John breathed against the rocks. Dust flew back into his face, stinging his eyes. His arms trembled from his clinging grip. The balls of his feet were hot with blisters. Grit stuck to his sweaty forehead when he leaned it against the wall. He glanced up at the opening, and his heart sank when he saw that he still had a great distance to go. He groaned in frustration.

Doubt that he could make it flourished in his thoughts. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t turn around. The way down would be far more treacherous. Better to continue towards his goal or die trying.

His ascent was continuously impeded by small breaks to let his cramping limbs rest. There was no way he could rush without risking a fatal mistake. This high, John could feel the breeze of the outside. He was sure it was more like a gale on the other side of the rock, considering their location up in the mountains.

This time when John stopped it was to revel in the cool air caressing his sweat soaked skin. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed such a simple pleasure until tears pricked the back of his eyes. He was reinvigorated with resolve. John moved to pull himself up to another ledge.

The breeze suddenly turned into a massive force that slammed him into the rocks. Winded and weakened, John’s grip slipped.

The empty fall enveloped him as he heard a familiar roar.

\--

The clearing became their designated meeting area. Overthrowing many sensible conventions, the two became close companions. Sherlock, as the dragon was called, regaled John with different stories of his long life. John recounted his own times as a warrior. They talked about everything.

Occasionally John would find Sherlock’s divergence from humanity disturbing. In the sense that he was foreign to the concepts of friendship and love.

“A dragon cannot fathom loneliness and has no need for others John,” he would say derisively, “you’re applying human emotion to something far above such primality.”

Yet he never spurned John’s company. When John pushed for the motive behind their frequent meetings Sherlock evasively answered that John was more interesting than counting his horde.

One day, Sherlock was apparently tired of craning his head down to John in order to look him in the eye. While John was talking, he folded his wings over himself, and smoothed them down like pulling down blankets.

The massive reptile was replaced by a man with creamy skin. Patches of his scales were patterned haphazardly across his body. His wings were reduced in size, but the edges still trailed over the ground like a cloak. His curly hair was an inky black and his eyes retained their piercing silver hue. Sherlock shook himself after the transformation like an animal flinging water away.

He looked at John expectantly. He apparently assumed John would pick up the story without any acknowledgement of what had just occurred.

“Remarkable,” John said without thought. He felt heat in his face when he realized what he’d said.

Sherlock blinked at him. His wings rustled against each other. “It’s interesting that you’ve noted on the novelty,” he said, “most of my kind can only alter their size, not their appearance.”

John cleared his throat, “Yes, well. It’s very -uh- nice.”

A smirk quirked over Sherlock’s full lips. He flared open his wings like a peacock displaying his feathers. It was then John realized Sherlock’s new form didn’t include clothes.

“Sherlock!” John shouted as he averted his eyes, “Could you please cover yourself?”

Sherlock’s wings flapped but remained open, “Why? I thought you found this form appealing.”

“Yes, I do. I mean! It’s, uh, very nice, but can you please just wrap your wings around yourself?”

Sherlock’s snort of disdain sounded the same as when he was a dragon, but he complied with John’s request. “I don’t understand your modesty,” he said with a twinge of annoyance, “I don’t wear garments as a dragon, and taking on the shape of a man doesn’t change what I am.”

John shrugged at him, “Call it an eccentricity of my being human, I suppose. People are only bare with one another if they’re…intimate.”

“Are we not?” the dragon frankly asked. He stepped towards John, maintaining the same fluid grace he possessed when he was far larger. “I’ve just shown you a form that could lead to my ruin if others were to know of it. If shedding your clothes is supposed to be equivalent to that level of vulnerability, wouldn’t that make us intimate now?”

He stood over John, his candid expression expecting an equally honest answer. Sherlock suddenly appeared to become occupied over the differences in detail from seeing John so closely. A pale hand tipped with claws came up to trace the bones in John’s cheek.

John’s heart fluttered as he stepped back. “Yes,” John stammered, “I suppose that would allow for some-I mean- I think I have confused you on the definition of-”

“You haven’t confused me,” Sherlock interrupted, “in sharing vulnerability with each other we’ve established an intimate relationship. Why does this bother you?”

“It doesn’t! I mean, it has a deeper meaning than my earlier suggestion. ‘Intimate’ implies two lovers, it’s more than positive companionship. So you should be fully aware that what you’re implying is-”

He was cut off by Sherlock again. This time from the dragon surging forward to tilt John’s head up and claim his lips. John felt his world tilt.  

It was the sensation of fangs brushing his lips that crashed him back to his senses. He stepped back abruptly, leaving Sherlock with his eyes still closed. The dragon leaned forward as if to follow a wayward mouth. Then he blinked and realized John had moved away.

John rushed to say something before his actions could be interpreted as offensive, “I thought you didn’t care for courtships.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock bluntly said, “but I do enjoy your presence. I find myself looking forward to these visits more and more. You are strangely alluring. More so than any human I’ve ever encountered.”

John’s thoughts struggled for purchase. He’d already considered it beyond possible to have met and befriended a dragon, yet here he was being wooed by one. Finally, John admitted, “I don’t know how to respond to that.”

This time when Sherlock stepped forward, it was to reach for John’s hand rather than his face. “Will you agree to be with me? In an ‘intimate relationship’ that you have so much difficulty in explaining?” Sherlock’s long and sharp teeth peeked from behind his smiling lips.

John expelled a strained laugh, “This just all seems quite mad.”

Sherlock hummed, “Perhaps. There is, after all, very little in this world that is more dangerous than courting a dragon.”

He used his grip on John’s hand to pull him forward. John couldn’t restrain his whoosh of surprise or stop the accelerated beating of his heart. Sherlock grinned at him like he knew what it all meant.

He entwined their fingers together and leaned forward to purr, “And you _revel_ in danger.”

\--

John felt long talons encircle his torso. For a moment, he was sweepingly weightless until they curled close. He was pulled up to lessen the lash of his recoil. John gripped a claw for stability. He felt as though his stomach was still plummeting to the ground. As he was flown further into the cave, his stunned state wore away.

He pushed at Sherlock’s claw despite the futility and stupidity of the gesture. The dragon made no acknowledgement of his struggle. He dropped John on the large and overstuffed pit-sunken bed. John bounced on the stuffing.

Overcome with frustration at being thwarted when he had been so damnably _close_ , he found his feet and ran for the cavern wall again.

Sherlock’s hand quickly landed over his body and pinned him to the ground. “What were you thinking?” Sherlock roared above him. John twisted himself over to face him rather than cower under the might of his fury.

“You could have been fallen, you could have died! What would you have done if I hadn’t just arrived to catch you?”

John stared up into large stormy eyes and said with complete honesty, “I would have been free.”

\--

“I don’t enjoy it when you leave,” Sherlock confessed. He was in his human form, and the both of them were enjoying the sunlight on their naked skin. John looked up at him. He didn’t pretend to be ignorant to Sherlock’s meaning or to lighten the mood with a flippant jest.

“I don’t enjoy leaving very much either,” John admitted, “but it’s what I have to do Sherlock.” He was needed in his village. He may not be required to hold a sword, but his community appreciated him more for his skills with threaded sinew and a bone needle.

“Not necessarily,” Sherlock said, trailing his claws up and down John’s golden and sweaty back, “you could come stay with me. In my cavern.”

John was shocked enough that he raised himself on his arm to look him in the eye. Under his scrutiny, John saw no evidence of the words being said in malice or ignorance.

Sherlock took John’s look as one of interest and continued, “I have every luxury fathomable. I can provide anything you require. We both prefer each other’s company to that of any other’s. You don’t have to return to some place you’d prefer not to. You wouldn’t have to live alone.”

John considered the proposal. He thought on it to a point that he even made a dragon nervous. “Sherlock, I think that’d be wonderful, but, how would I be able to get back to the village? You live all the way up in the mountains. What if I was urgently needed?”

Sherlock looked at John like he’d just recited the most confounding riddle, “Why would you want to leave?”

John laughed, “Well what I be doing your cavern while you were away? I can’t idle my time just waiting for your return.”

“Why not?”

“Sherlock,” John chided, “I’m needed in the village. A doctor is a necessity in any town.”

“But I value you more. You know I do. They only care about your skills as a physician. I won’t have any need of that.”

“Incredible,” John said with the clipped cracking tone of broken ice, “you’ve managed to flatter my abilities and belittle them at the same time.” He moved off of Sherlock’s chest. He pulled up his breeches with sharp jerks while ignoring Sherlock’s platitudes.

“John, that wasn’t what I meant.”

John made to walk away, perhaps he intended to tell Sherlock he’d be back, but he needed a moment to clear his head. He was stopped when Sherlock gripped his arm. For a chilled moment, John remembered the vast strength this form held.

“I enjoy your presence immeasurably, and I know the feeling is shared. Why should you continue to be apart from me if we find it displeasing?”

John sighed as he felt his anger evaporate. Sometimes John forgot just how new and foreign such feelings must be to a dragon. “I do enjoy your company Sherlock, and I care for you a great deal. But we have lives and experiences outside of each other,” he placed his free hand over Sherlock’s and the dragon flinched but didn’t release him.

“It’s not that I enjoy our separation. We just need things outside of each other. We need our own lives and to meet other people-”

Sherlock’s face suddenly became enraged. His grip tightened to the point of pain. “No,” he snarled. He pushed forward until John’s back hit a tree. John was too shocked by the abrupt shift that he didn’t react when Sherlock gripped his other shoulder.

“I won’t have it.  I detest it, every day, to know that you go back to that crowd of slavering idiots that don’t appreciate what you are. To wait in my cavern, day after day, wondering how many undeserving cretins you’ve touched in the name of healing or how many have dared to touch you.”

The blue scales crept in an increasing amount like frost on a glass pane. John felt his eyes widen when he saw Sherlock’s narrowing pupils.

“They don’t deserve you. They don’t understand your value. They can’t see your worth. You’re an unfathomable treasure and they only notice you when it benefits them.”

Horror tangled through John’s throat as comprehension came to him. “Is that how you see me? A treasure for you to keep?”

Sherlock’s features tightened. His lips pressed together into a thin line. It was when he averted his eyes that John had his answer.

“I would take care of you John,” Sherlock entreated, “I would covet you and treat you the way you deserve. We could stay together without the interference of others. Please, John,” the hand on his shoulder moved up to cup John’s cheek, “stay with me.”

John stared into Sherlock’s eyes. He saw a fevered obsession and a desire to possess that would never be satisfied. John wondered if it had always been there, or if he had stoked it with his own desperate need for companionship. Had his actions, which had seemed so innocuous, sparked an instinct that the dragon couldn’t resist? Perhaps there was a very good reason that John had never heard of dragons falling in love.

Regardless of how it was started, John needed to put an end to it. Otherwise, Sherlock’s need for control would consume the both of them until only ashes of their relationship remained.

With sorrow, disappointment, and resignation forming a rock in his throat, John said, “I won’t be your trinket Sherlock.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised to stillness. John took advantage of this by stepping out of the dragon’s hold. He backed away as Sherlock turned to watch.

“I’m a free person. I fought for that. I bled for it. I won’t have that taken away, no matter the intentions or how much I care for the person responsible.”

Despite the stupidity of the gesture, John turned his back as he walked out of the meadow. No claws tore at his flesh. There was just the sound of rushing wind and a deafening roar of rage and anguish. His heart broke a little more when he heard wings fly towards the mountaintops.

\--

Sherlock was so infuriated by John’s answer that he bellowed a stream of fire up above them. The stifling heat caused John to turn his face away. With the ends of the flames still licking the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, he picked John up again and tossed him back onto the bed.

John yelled as he flew through the air. With his breath knocked out and exhaustion finally catching up to him, he wasn’t planning on another ill-advised dash. Sherlock’s claws came down around him anyway.

This time both hands encircled him leaving only his legs and head free. His shoulders brushed against hot and scaly skin as he struggled against the tight grip. Sherlock’s head snaked down to snap his teeth close to John’s face. He instantly stilled.

A low growl reverberated through Sherlock’s throat as he stared at his captive, “You will not be free of me John. Not ever. You are _mine_. If you need to be punished to remind you of this, so be it.” Sherlock’s maw moved towards John’s legs.

John felt panic pierce his heart like an arrow. “Sherlock,” John barely noticed the threadiness in his voice, “what are you doing?”

“Teaching you a lesson,” Sherlock responded. He stared John down with eyes that held no hint of mercy. “I’ll have to cauterize the wounds immediately so you don’t bleed out. This will hurt, so I’d advise giving in to the urge to faint.”

Terror wished for John to say a thousand things yet none of them would come. When the dragon took one of his legs between his fangs, a plea finally sprang forth.

“Stop! Stop! Sherlock, please, don’t do this!” The dragon’s eyes flickered to him while he still held a leg captive. John’s imagination immediately surmised how quickly events would occur. The bite would be as easy as snapping through a carrot. The positioning was just below John’s knee, meaning that he would forever feel the ghost of his limbs for as long as he lived in this cave. Hopefully, when Sherlock ate the other one, it would be symmetrical. That way he could avoid the twisting of his body as it tried to overcompensate for one side. Of course, one truth stood out the most from the flood of images crashing in his mind.

Sherlock was right, it would hurt beyond measure.

“Please,” the desperation was still in John’s voice, but it had become the whisper of those without hope, “please don’t do this.” His hands trembled violently as he reached downward. They landed on Sherlock’s snout, and John left them there unmoving.

For a moment, John saw the coldness in those reptilian eyes fade until he looked the same as when he had transformed in that meadow so long ago. Then it was gone. John’s heart stuttered.

His leg tensed with the instinct to kick and buck away, and a sharp pain immediately followed. John would have been prepared to try and free his captive leg at the risk of heavy lacerations and further ire, but he was let go at the last second.

Relief pulsed through him, more soporific than any infusion he had used to cure the nightmares after his return from war. He tensed again when Sherlock’s face came close to his. “I need to take care of something. _Don't_ try to leave again.”

Before John could lie, Sherlock moved away and flew out of the only entrance.

John spent a long time curled on his side, gasping for air and running his hands over his legs. As blood caked one hand, John realized he’d been cut. The wound was thankfully shallow, but was bleeding an amount that would be worrying if he didn’t abate it. Thankfully, John was in no short supply of cloth.

The shredded blanket served as a makeshift bandage, but the material was far from ideal. Already the silk was sticking to his wound and refused to be as absorbent as linen. He would have to find something else to dress his cut before his next escape. Before Sherlock came back to enact whatever sinister plan he had in mind.

From a combination of exhaustion, relief and unspent adrenaline, John collapsed into sleep.

\--

The burnings began a few weeks after John’s refusal to leave with Sherlock. They were small ones on the outskirts of the village. A few crops singed here and there, some livestock missing to turn up bloodied messes a few miles down the road, and random wildfires that made travelling and trade erratic.

At first, John was foolish enough to think it was coincidence. Excuses like rabid predators and drought turning everything to kindling was much easier to deal with than the cold chill that John felt when he’d first heard about the incidences.

As they became more and more frequent, it was impossible to ignore. Now it wasn’t just crops, but barns. The death of the livestock grew in number until people were without their own means of milk and wool. Entire roads were considered closed until the fires could be stopped, which halted any import the community needed to survive.

John had gone back to the meadow. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish if Sherlock was there. Dragons were stubborn creatures by nature, and he was sure Sherlock excelled in that characteristic above his peers. Just as he excelled in all things.

When he found their meeting spot, John was only met with the sight of blackened earth, uprooted trees, and a river clogged with debris. Sherlock had been here, but it did not seem likely he would ever return.

He left, feeling even worse than the last time he had walked away from that place. Then he’d heard the rush of wings ahead, the screams of people, and a great roar precipitated by the sound of blazing fire.

John had run through the forest as fast as he could. But by the time he’d arrived, the dragon was gone. The shops and the houses were burning. People were frantically looking for loved ones, yelling for help, or trying to put out the fires. John stepped in and directed everyone as best as he could. John thanked the gods that the drought had been broken earlier that day with heavy rain. Otherwise, they would have lost the whole town.

When the flames had been reduced to embers, they tallied the dead. Six to be buried, many more to be treated for burns.

John had found a quiet place away from prying eyes before he dry-heaved. Was this ever going to stop? Was the next visit going to be the village’s last? All because he had rejected the advances of a dragon?

With those bleak thoughts weighing down his mind, John stepped back outside. Only to be greeted by several dozen stares. One man stepped forward, ringing his hands together.

“It had a message, while it was flying over the town. It said it wanted you. It said if you go to it, then it will stop,” the villager told him. The man couldn’t even look John in the eye. The townsfolk behind him wore expressions of regret, fear, and a few of them were flinted with resentment.

Those few had no idea how or why, but they knew John was the cause of this destruction. Regardless of the reasons, they were fully prepared to meet the dragon’s demands, no matter John’s response. John didn’t blame them.

In his mind there was only one answer.

“I’ll go to him.”

They parted for him as he left. He didn’t look back once, but felt their gazes burning holes in his back all the same.

He didn’t need instruction of where to meet Sherlock. As he trudged toward the desiccated meadow, he wondered what would have happened if he had arrived just a little sooner. If he hadn’t ignored the signs and had tried to intervene earlier, if this all could have been avoided. Had Sherlock been waiting for him after each incidence, and had been driven to such extremes in a desperate bid for his attention? How long had he waited before John had walked into the clearing earlier? John supposed he’d never really know, for he certainly wasn’t about to ask Sherlock.

The dragon was waiting for him in his human form. Surrounded by blackness, cutting a pale figure even while wrapped in his wings, he looked like a harbinger of death. The smile Sherlock gave John matched the morbidity of a skull’s grin.

“I knew you’d come,” Sherlock praised as he came closer. John didn’t walk any further, and waited for what would happen when Sherlock reached him.

“I told you John, they only wanted you when you were useful to them,” Sherlock was close enough to touch. He trailed his claws down John’s cheek. “All I had to do was make sure you were far more dangerous to keep around than to send away. Do you see how fickle humans are with the things that should matter the most to them? Because I can assure you John,” the claws pinched John’s chin, tilting his head up so he could gaze directly into Sherlock’s reptilian eyes, “no matter the levels of chaos inflicted upon me or others, I would have _never_ let you go.”

He leaned in and kissed John. The man closed his eyes first to avoid showing Sherlock the depths of his terror. The kiss was less a show of passion and more of a claim of victory. The dragon had his prize.

Sherlock soon transformed and carried John to his new home. In John’s mind, it was more accurate to term it as his prison.

The days after that blended together. Sherlock had at least been truthful in that John wanted for nothing. Sherlock had crafted a sunken pit full of furs and silks for John to sleep in. There was a trickling waterfall from the rocks that gave him fresh water, and at the opposite end the ravine fed into a small bottomless hole which took care of his waste.

Sherlock brought back plenty of game and root vegetables from the forest. Once or twice he came back with crates full of more luxurious produce. Things which could only be bought from lavish markets with large amounts of coin, or taken by force. John became quiet every time Sherlock brought back such boxes.

After John’s second day there, Sherlock had burned the clothes he’d arrived in. The dragon had said it had been because of the smell. John knew otherwise. His only other reminder of his life outside of the cavern was reduced to shriveling blackened threads. Instead, Sherlock took to dressing John every day. His horde was vast with jewels, trinkets, and fineries that could never serve any purpose aside from being pleasing to look at.

When John had perused through the treasure himself, he’d found several trunks full of highborn women’s clothing. At first, Sherlock had encouraged John to wear the dresses. It wasn’t due to deviancy, for Sherlock wasn’t shy with his motives. “I want to see what you’d look like in the colorful hues that are only afforded to those privileged with wealth, but who are also incredibly undeserving of it.”

John hadn’t argued against it. How could he be humiliated by something that no one would ever see or know? Dozens of garments he’d tried on, and John certainly had a new found respect for the women who had to wear the things every day. The fabric was heavy and cumbersome, took an incredibly long time to adorn, and served no purpose other than turning a human being into a bauble to be admired.

Sherlock had been pleased at first. He’d admired each new item with all of the attention of an audience member at a riveting play. The golden and blue tinted fabrics were his particular favorites. John didn’t notice the change in Sherlock’s mood until he was struggling with the layers of a giant violet gown.

He’d just gotten the neck of the thing past his head, when he saw the swipe of a giant claw towards his back. A scream came unbidden from John’s throat at the sight of it. There a tugging pull at his throat, a loud ripping sound, and John wondered when he would register the sensation of the skin being torn from his back. When there was no white pain or rush of blood, John opened his eyes to see the gown in tatters at his feet.

He’d barely had time to register the abrupt change before he was being picked up and carried back to the bed. He was gently placed on the fabrics, which was completely at odds with the heated and random murmurs coming from above him.

“No more clothes,” the dragon said, “no more hiding. It’s your skin, it’s _my_ skin. Mine to see and to touch. It can’t be kept away by cloth. No more.”

Sherlock wasn’t looking at John as he said these things. He was randomly snapping at the air around him, as if any minute a thousand silk spiders would descend to wrap John in webbing and keeping him forever covered. John’s heart beat as fast as the day he had first seen Sherlock in the clearing.

Later, even he would be uncertain to his true motives. Perhaps he was fearful of what Sherlock would do if this strange fixation was left untempered. Maybe he was sick of wearing dresses at the behest of a giant firedrake. Or, quite possibly, he wanted to comfort Sherlock in his moment of distress.

“Alright,” John said as his hand came up to rest against the scales of Sherlock’s arm, “alright.”

Sherlock’s head swiveled down to look at John. His eyes widened, as if he hadn’t realized John had been there the whole time. Then his words registered and he asked, “What?”

“No more fabric then,” John took a deep breath to soothe the unsteadiness in his voice, “no more clothes. Since it clearly makes you more irritable than usual.”

Sherlock blinked at John. He shifted himself downward, and suddenly he was on top of John in his human form. “You’re being truthful? You would willingly give this up for me?”

John hesitated. He was willing to give this up, but clearly Sherlock thought it was for reasons more chivalrous than intended. John said, “Why not? You’re the only one who’s ever going to see me again.”

He meant for it to sound bitter, and it did. It sounded like the taste of copper after the inside of a cheek has been bitten to keep a smile rigidly in place. Yet Sherlock’s eyes were gleaming with wonder, rather than alight with anger.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. His head came down to nuzzle John’s neck, tickling John’s face with his black curls. “John, you are beyond value. To know that you’d willingly hand over—I know what clothing means for humans. You mentioned before, do you remember? The first time I showed you my form. You said that nudity for humans is an intimate gesture. To know that you would be constantly bare, that you’d be consistently showing how much you belong to me. I cannot express it in words.”

John’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. It was only now that he realized the gravity of his gesture. “Clearly you’re trying, but I understand all the same,” John quipped to ignore the thoughts churning in his head.

A deep laugh rumbled against his chest. He felt a hot tongue travel across his collarbone. John shivered. This would mark the first time they’d been together since John had left home. The past few days had not been the best time to engage in heated bonding.

The thought of stopping it crossed John’s mind. He hadn’t forgiven Sherlock for his transgressions, and writhing together atop a pile of stolen blankets and pillows was an image that curdled his blood. Then he remembered the easy way the thick fabric had parted for Sherlock’s claws. All because the silk had hidden John’s skin away from him. John released a shuddering breath that the dragon mistook for eagerness.

John felt Sherlock’s tail coil along his leg to gently pull it to the side. Sherlock nestled between John’s thighs, kissing and licking his way across the golden flesh he revered so much. He reached a nipple and held it delicately between his sharpened teeth. John froze underneath him. At first, Sherlock only chuckled. Then the dragon let go to look consideringly at John’s chest.

His claws traced looping patterns on the path left behind by his tongue. He said nothing, just watched the black talons circle around John’s nipples or trail along his throat. John shifted, disconcerted by the mercurial moods, before Sherlock finally spoke.

“I’ve seen some human adorn their ears with jewels. They pierce the lobes to hang a combination of thin metalwork and gems.” His pinched a nipple between two of his claws, and John’s heart skipped a pace.

“It would be lovely, to see precious stones hanging from here. As if you were a masterfully crafted idol made to be worshipped. It would be sensitive work, but I know I could do it.” The claws tightened. Out of reflex, John’s hands came up to circle Sherlock’s wrists.

The dragon’s eyes bore into John’s. It felt as though the gaze could see into his skull and drink in all of his fear. With a deep breath, the former soldier said, “I would appreciate it, quite immensely, if you’d refrain from doing so.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a breathless moment. Then he chuckled and said, “Of course John. After all, there’s no telling what it would do to your sensitivity. I’d hate to ruin that.” He bent down to run a forked tongue against John’s nipples to demonstrate.

John arched underneath in a blaze of relief and adrenaline turned to arousal.

The dragon’s lips curled up in a smirk. He lapped gently at the small bud until it began to stiffen. He kissed his way across John’s chest and repeated his ministrations on the other nipple.  

John felt his member begin to fill with blood as the dragon tweaked, licked, and nipped at his nipples. His hips shifted without thought. He moaned and gripped at Sherlock’s hair as the dragon pressed a nipple between his teeth.

In the back of his mind John was still afraid. He’d seen the intent gaze Sherlock had adopted at the thought of piercing his body. There was an intensity there that rivalled even the most ardent lovers of John’s past. He doubted it was a thought the dragon would dismiss so easily, and John had a sinking suspicion that it wasn’t the worst thing he could do.

He was Sherlock’s treasure, to be molded and shaped as he saw fit. The fact that he had listened to John’s suggestions indicated a miracle. All of this swirled in his head like a maelstrom that John shuttered himself against. He couldn’t let himself fall to panic and speculation now, lest it consume him entirely.

He bucked when Sherlock pressed his own hot length against John’s, and the dull roar in his head quieted to a soft clamor. He focused on how good Sherlock was making him feel, and saved the repulsion at himself for another day.

Sherlock moved his attentions from John’s nipple to the planes of his stomach and down to his groin. His full lips teasingly brushed the side of John’s erection. His long tongue licked a path up John’s length and flickered across the head.

He leaned away, and John couldn’t stop the moan of protest. The dragon smirked down at him. He grabbed one of the many bottles he had wedged along the side of the bed pit. He placed it firmly in John’s hand as he commanded, “Prepare yourself.”

John pushed down the speculation of what might happen if he refused. He coated his fingers in the slick liquid, and did as he was told. From their previous dalliances, he knew how to open himself efficiently without any major discomfort. Sherlock didn’t normally get impatient easily, but when he was as agitated as he was now, John wasn’t sure what he would do.

The entire time, Sherlock watched as John’s fingers disappeared inside of himself. His unnatural eyes barely wavered from staring at him, half-lidded and depravedly content. A low rumbling akin to a purr filled the space between them. John shuddered at the sound.

After John had stretched himself on four fingers, Sherlock gently pulled his hand away. He easily pulled John’s legs up, wrapping them around his scaled hips. With one hand braced beside John’s head, he used the other to guide himself in.

John arched up, gripping Sherlock’s arm to anchor himself. The satisfied rumble returned, and John could feel it echoing inside of him. Even with John’s thorough preparation, Sherlock’s size always meant they had to slowly proceed. By the time Sherlock’s hips were fully flushed against John’s backside, the man was a sweating and quivering mess.

Sherlock rolled his hips, rubbing his hard length against John’s walls. John cursed, digging his nails into Sherlock’s flesh even while the dragon barely felt it. Unable to move because of the dragon’s weight, John could only continue to pant and shake from sensation.

Sherlock minutely dragged himself in and out of John’s body, setting a slow rhythm that must have been tailored to drive John mad. Guttural moans slipped from the both of them, growing in volume the faster Sherlock sped. Sherlock curled himself over John’s body, biting into the junction of John’s neck and shoulder. John cried out from a pain that somehow fueled his pleasure.

For John, it was finally registering the sound of their bodies meeting each other again and again that pushed him into a blinding climax. For Sherlock, it was the way his lover trembled in shameless abandonment that caused him to roar his completion to the distant patch of sky above them.

Later, as Sherlock licked away at the sweat of John’s nape, he whispered more about John’s importance and value. John stared at the soft silks and numerous valuables around him. This was all he would be. A coveted thing in a sequestered place.

He would run, John decided. It would not be an easy escape and an even harder life. For he would never be able to interact with another community, lest Sherlock burn it to the ground out of revenge.

But, with grim honesty, John knew that even a lifetime of solitude would be preferable to being a dragon’s treasure.

\--

He was so close this time. So much closer than the last time he’d tried to escape. After John had woken up, adorned himself in a sheet in a pitiful shield for the outside’s cold, and changed his wound’s dressing, he’d immediately began again. There was no telling how long he’d been incapacitated, or when Sherlock would be back from whatever mysterious quest he’d undertaken.

John only knew that whatever Sherlock had planned would prevent him from leaving the mountain permanently. With the remembered sensation of fangs grazing his legs, John reached for the lip of the cave’s ceiling.

He was so exhausted that as he pulled himself up, he thought for sure his trembling muscles would fail him. Every part of him ached and begged for rest. His desperation and anxiety for what the future held pushed his body’s limitations.

 As his upper body pressed against the top of the rock, he realized he’d been right in his earlier assumptions. The wind was far more ferocious on the outside. The chill bit into the bare flesh that wasn’t covered by the tied silk sheet. As he pulled himself out and stood up, the force of it nearly knocked him back into the long drop behind him. He could barely see past his squinted eyes and the flurry of snowflakes whipping around him. It was the most divine sensation he’d ever experienced.

John strode forward to realize it would be no easy descent downward. The surrounding environment spoke only of craggy precipices and frozen blocks of snow. There would be no easy way down. His skin already felt chapped and stung with the cold. John’s trembling fingers curled at his side. He’d known freedom wouldn’t be easy, being confronted with being right wouldn’t deter him now.

He turned to face the entrance of his prison, and began to climb down.

If the measure of time had seemed indecipherable up the craggy cave, it was positively nonexistent on his way down. He was too concerned with his numb limbs and chattering teeth to notice how long he’d been climbing. He was caught between the need to stop for rest and knowing that respite meant risking falling into a slumber he’d never awake from.

So it wasn’t entirely surprising that John hadn’t noticed any winged beasts approaching or entering the cavern until the enraged roar shook the mountain.

There was nothing else John could do except to continue. Out in the open, there was nowhere to hide. The sound of heavy wings beating against the air currents filled him with dread. He briefly thought that there was a chance Sherlock wouldn’t notice him, pressed against the mountainside as he was. But he was the lone living thing in this forsaken place, and his sheet was a cerulean beacon against all of the white and black.

John thought the sound was coming closer. He was afraid to turn and look. He licked his lips and felt the spit worsen the splitting skin. There was nothing he could do. Sherlock would find him, and he’d be taken back, or he’d go unnoticed and suffer a slow death of exposure. Or he could fall.

John craned his neck to look below. The wind obscured everything. There was a chance the fall would be long and the end quick. He could break his body against a close ledge and die in agony. He’d told Sherlock that even death would be preferable to his imprisonment. Now, faced with the choice, he wasn’t so certain.

His indecision dearly cost him.

John would never know if he would have taken that final leap into the truest form of the unknown, for in that instant, Sherlock descended upon him.

John might have taken the breath to scream in protest, but the cold air sliced his lungs. The scaled claws curled around him once more to wrench away his weak grip on the rocks. Then it was the uneasy dip in his stomach that flight always gave him, the shift from freezing cold to a warmth that would have normally been pleasantly tolerable but now felt blistering, and then he was back on the accursed bed.

This time though, when he was dropped down, something beside him jangled. He didn’t have the time to look, because Sherlock was pressing down on top of him in his human form. Words of hatred blazed across John’s mind and nearly came flying in vitriolic fervor from his tongue. They were stopped when Sherlock’s clipped and swift movements reached for the object beside him, pulled it close, and snapped it snug around his throat.

Stunned by confusion, John reached up to touch the thing. Something metallic circled his neck. Sherlock got off of him before John could voice his questions. Then he realized Sherlock was still holding something.

It was a long chain of golden links. The chiming sound of them hitting each other was close to his ear, and when he numbly felt along the back of the device, he felt the soldered part where they attached to his collar. The word rang through his head like a tolling bell of doom.

Sherlock’s transformation back into a dragon caught John’s attention. As John’s mind tried to gather together under the onslaught of unending horror, he didn’t comprehend Sherlock’s plan. Until the dragon began digging into the cave wall.

“No,” the word left with John’s disbelieving breath. Then the realization that this was all more than just a feverish nightmare fully awakened John’s desperation. “No!”

His hands scrambled at the metal around his throat. A few fingers managed to tug the collar, but it remained tightly latched. Despite its coloring, this was clearly made of a substance much stronger than gold. John pulled and pulled, but his fingers slipped from his sweat.

Sherlock either hadn’t noticed or was ignoring John’s attempts to free himself. When enough rock had been furrowed from the surface, he picked up his end of the chain.

With a shout of anger and fear, John gripped the length that wrapped around in front of him. He lowered himself down and tried to walk backward. He could barely move. Even with his feet planted on the ground, Sherlock’s feeding of the chain into the created nook pulled him forward.

The dragon finally seemed to notice the resistance. His head swiveled back towards the man desperately trying to keep even a modicum of freedom. Pale eyes narrowed above a monstrous face that had never looked more unforgiving.

His claws curled even tighter around the leash of golden metal. He whipped his head back towards his project, and with a snarl that echoed up the cavern’s walls, he breathed fire around the rock and embedded chain.

John continued to pull at the length of chain he had. His feet slid along the bottom of the bed pit. He leaned back with all of his weight, but not once did Sherlock relinquish his hold.

The stone and metal melted together until the spot began to glow with heat. Without a flinch, Sherlock’s pressed it together with his free claws. He kept the rock from sliding away or the metal from oozing out of its place.

John writhed and strained. He felt akin to a worm squirming after being speared on a hook. Finally, his inhibitions crumbled with the rise of hopelessness. “Please, Sherlock,” John begged as he fell to his knees, “don’t do this.”

The dragon said nothing. He continued to watch the rock cool around the chain.

Broken by his former lover’s apathy, John hunched over and clenched the bedding in his grip. Anguish over his imprisonment and sorrow over what they had become threatened to smother him. He couldn’t stop a short but mournful wail.

The dragon flinched, but it went unseen.

They stayed like this in silence until Sherlock stepped away after it was finished cooling. John’s head jerked up. The chain was seamlessly blended into the rock until metal and stone became one. John could make out small veins of gold that laced its way along the surface of the rock.

John gritted his teeth and yanked hard on his chain. It jangled, then went still. He stood up, gripped harder, and pulled again. It refused to move. Over and over again, John pulled at his restraints. Until his neck felt raw from chafing, his forehead dripped with sweat, and his hands were blistered from his grip on the metal.

John fell to his knees again, this time out of exhaustion. Pale hands tipped in talons silently covered John’s hands. Slowly he pulled his fingers away from the metal. Sherlock tipped John’s chin towards him.

John refused to weep, but it felt worse to have the hot tears threaten to fall as he looked into Sherlock’s beseeching gaze. “I understand this is difficult for you to accept,” Sherlock said, “but you belong here with me John. I can’t risk you injuring yourself when I’m not around. If something were to happen to you I-” he seemed unable to continue. His hands came down on John’s shoulders to steady himself. He went on, “I don’t know if I would be able to survive that. So, for now, until I can trust you alone again, this is how things will be.”

He cupped the back of John’s head and looked at him with such devotion that John couldn’t decide to be heartbroken or disgusted. Sherlock’s hands reached behind John’s head. Before he could understand what was going on, there was the soft sound of his claws having ripped through skin. Sherlock winced in pain, and then brought his bleeding wrist to John’s mouth.

John violently flinched away. Out of instinct, his hands came up to cover Sherlock’s wound in an effort to staunch the flow. “What in the seven hells are you-”

Sherlock pressed his wrist against John’s open mouth. Instead of the taste of copper, the blood was rich and spiced like mulled wine. A sulfuric hint had John spluttering. The blood traced a path in his throat and dripped down his chin. John’s face wrinkled in displeasure, his atrocious situation forgotten as he demanded, “Why did you do that?”

“To heal your wound, regain the strength and skin you lost from your…expedition outside, and to prolong your life.”

John frowned and looked down at himself. His raw skin had become smoothed, his blistered hands and feet were fully mended. He unwrapped his crude bandage to find barely any evidence of his gouge. Only a small scar that looked years old rather than a day’s.

The rumors of a dragon’s potent magical ingredients flooded through him. There was never any assumption of truth to the whispers. After all, who would be foolish enough to try and vanquish a dragon for its extremities? It seemed that one of those myths rang true. A dragon’s blood could heal ailments and provide limitless longevity.

And John had an endless supply sitting next to him, cataloguing the new ways John could be frightened into paralysis.

“I promised I’d take care of you John, and I will. From now until the end of our days.”

Tears ran down John’s face. A long time ago, they would have been ones of joy.

 


End file.
